


A Happy Thing

by wrothmothking



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canon Compliant, Custom Warden (Dragon Age), Discussion of Pregnancy, F/F, F/M, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:21:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26932786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrothmothking/pseuds/wrothmothking
Summary: Grim knows she'll be seeing Morrigan again—doesn't mean she can't give her another reason to allow it.
Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland/Morrigan (Dragon Age), Alistair/Morrigan/Warden (Dragon Age)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	A Happy Thing

**Author's Note:**

> custom warden: griselda "grim" cousland, rogue, assassin/duelist/shadow, lawful good with a temper. she has a tag, grim cousland, on my tumblr (@wrothmoth) if you care to see it.

The deal is settled—no one shall die. And yet, there is a pervasive aura of misery among them. Alistair's tense, shoulders lifted and head lowered subconsciously to shield the delicate line of his throat, and Morrigan has a fine tremble about her extremities. Their discomfort makes Grim nauseaous, for despite the circumstances this should be a _happy_ thing. Sex should be fun! A child shall be made! And, they are each beloved even if much of their relationship continues to consist of poisoned barbs. (She knows Alistair now wears his helm while exploring so as to hide his smile during their squabbles. It's play-fighting, really.) Morrigan rushes to heal Alistair second only to Grim—her armor _is_ lighter—oft putting her own life at risk in the process, and Alistair in turn defends her with beautiful ferocity whenever someone dares target their favorite mage.

Morrigan scoffs. “Don't think this means I loathe you any less.”

“Oh, don't worry, I know you too well by now,” Alistair sneers, and the exchange is a needed dose of normality, but it's not exactly helpful.

“Y'know, when I dreamed of this, there was a lot less talking.”

“What—you dreamed of _me_ and _her_?”

“Along with myself, of course,” Grim answers, polite mask cracking into a smirk when his blush deepens to a lovely brick red.

Morrigan's far paler skin remains white, disappointingly; instead, her brow's pulled into an adorable scowl, her lips're pursed, her eyes wide and blinking. For the first time since Morrigan approached her, doubt carves a hole in her heart. Were those sighs of hers annoyance, not wistful admiration? Had those stares scorched Grim with resentment, not growing infatuation? What of the lingering touches when Grim helped her up or Alistair gently pulled her behind him or they huddled close in the snow? Perhaps Alistair is her sole interest, and perhaps he is a useful means to an end.

It shouldn't hurt. Mere hours ago, Grim was content to have Morrigan as a friend, Alistair her sole lover.

 _But they're so good together._ And with Morrigan's planning to leave-

“Huh. I should've known when you were comparing her to storms and dragons with that lovestruck expression on your face. Of course you think those things romantic rather than bone-chillingly _terrifying,_ ” Alistair teases, startling Grim from her ruminations.

“You're not angry with me?”

“Well, you did just propose. Pardon me for feeling secure in your affections,” he next jokes, taking her hand in his and winking at Morrigan's open befuddlement. Being for once the one with all the answers, all the confidence, sets an ease in the perfect line of his spine. If Grim's eyes linger on the barely-visible curve a little south of it, well, Alistair's yet to complain, and Morrigan does so loathe hypocrites—it would be a shame for her to become one.

“Forgive me. I had not realized you enjoy the company of other women.”

“She's an equal-oppurtunity lover.”

“What an odd thing to brag about your soon-to-be wife,” Morrigan drawls, voice thick with derision, and it is indeed the exact sort of admittance that would see any lord escorted out of Cousland Castle—after he's given the eve to sober up, of course. The most pitiful form of political suicide is the scandal of a marital bed occupied not by the married two—if needs must, a wandering husband is oft survivable.

“What can I say? I'm a feminist.”

A twitch of the lips: an almost-smile. Perhaps succeeding in her mother's mission, no longer having the spectre of that wretched woman-dragon-abomination hanging over her, and in so doing taking a leave of absence from society and its inarguable evils, she will learn to allow herself simple joys like a smile shared between three forever-friends.

When they're alive, the Blight defeated, and have somehow stumbled back into one another's lives against the odds.

For now, breathes raspy, pulse aflutter, Grim gathers herself to ask: “Do you want me to leave?”

“No!” Alistair answers, fast.

Grim squeezes their still-clasped hands to assure him he's heard, but keeps her gaze locked on Morrigan's pretty, wild golden hues. So close to Alistair's in color, yet impossible to mistake.

Morrigan huffs. “Stay, or go. It matters not.”

“Very well. I shall see you both in the morn-”

“Did you not hear what I said?”

“'I don't care' isn't consent, Morrigan.”

“If I took offense at your presence, you would know. Is that not enough?”

Grim considers. She's not sure what weakness Morrigan fears exposing. Maybe it is one thing to see a duty fulfilled, and quite another to enjoy oneself? A second woman adds nothing speaking strictly in impregnating the first; Grim is an unnecessary element. A luxury. A golden mirror.

Or perhaps she's mistaking dream for reality, getting ahead of herself.

She needn't take the plunge; Morrigan drifts closer between blinks, her right hand slithering up Grim's bicep, her left encircling Alistair's shoulder. Grim shivers; Morrigan smirks. The eye contact is heady, suffocating. Anticipation builds in her breast, a lump dense as coal squishing her organs and straining her-

Alistair's wary chuckle dispels the tension by degrees. Grim can move again.

And move she does, surging forth to cup Morrigan's face in her palms and draw her into a kiss no less passionate for its gentleness.

Her lips are chapped. Her breath smells of the elfroot she munches for their poultices even with Wynne's offer to borrow her mortar and pestle. Grim wonders if she'll taste the same.

Alistair wraps an arm around her back, watching intently, but not jealously. Or, conversely, _perversely_. There's simply the warm understanding of a man well-loved—this is about Morrigan.

Morrigan, who soaks in the attention beautifully. And when she opens, Grim notes with amusement the slight medicinal flavor of her mouth.

“Okay?” Grim pants.

Scoffing, Morrigan responds with another kiss—this time, with Alistair.

But Grim only smiles, and sets about conquering the uncharted territory of Morrigan's neck, her right hand anchoring in her hair, her left grasping her hip with undue force. It's hot. It's hot, pressing herself so close she can feel the outlines of her skeleton digging sharply into her own soft tissues, Alistair a leaden weight pressed against their sides, an armored furnace.

This heat invades Grim's mind, blurring time and motion so that between one moment and the next they've each managed to tear the clothes from one another, laying leisurely, nakedly, atop the mattress, hands grasping for any bit of flesh, as much to explore with innocence as to consume with lust. It's a treasured closeness, this fevered intimacy, and Grim can scarcely believed they're really doing this. They're making a child, a child who will be the reincarnation of the Archdemon. So much can go wrong with this.

Grim crawls between Morrigan's thighs. If this dooms the world, so be it. Her will is all that's saving it from the Darkspawn on the morrow; should this selfishness lead to the next Blight, she'll have bought them years even so. What is Fereldan compared to a pretty girl, anyway?


End file.
